


Blue Blood (Minis)

by SirenNightshade



Series: Connelyn (Blue Blood) [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android, Continuation, Exophilia, F/M, Interspecies, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Los Angeles, Romance, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenNightshade/pseuds/SirenNightshade
Summary: Minis for my fic Blue Blood: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205895These are all relevant to the characters in question but ultimately too slow or irrelevant to the story to place in the main fic. Enjoy!
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Connelyn (Blue Blood) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644976
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Bored

**Author's Note:**

> I will be linking chapters as necessary, but most of these won't be directly relevant to any particular chapters.

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

**Summary:** Connor is bored. That’s weird, right? He shouldn’t feel bored. But he was – he was so bored…and so he decided to test himself.

**Note:** This snippet is between chapters 11 and 12. 

* * *

* * *

* * *

Evelyn could’ve made an incredible criminal, Connor learned.

They spent a few hours talking about how, exactly, to get his people free of CyberLife storage and warehouses, the logistics of it, and most importantly: how to keep the two of them from being identified in the process. Since they were both officers, and specifically Evelyn a sergeant in her force, being caught up in such things would bring them both down -- hard.

Neither of them wanted that, so they were careful to construct things in a perfect way to avoid catastrophe. And while Connor would willingly and shamelessly say he was brilliant (CyberLife skimped on nothing with his features), more and more he was finding Evelyn’s insight helpful. She had two things he didn’t -- two very, very important things: 

Human perspective, and experience.

He could study up on crime all he wanted, but even that wouldn’t match her decade of experience in this field. And try as he might, he’d never be able to truly envision things from a human’s perspective; their minds worked in different ways, his run by numbers and hers by sensory inputs.

While he was focused on the math involved in luring probable guards away from doors, their exact movements and schedules, she suggested scents. While he was concerned with alarm systems and erasing digital evidence, she pointed out the possibility of laying false trails. While he pondered on time, distance, and speed, she considered capitalizing on the weather.

He took great pride in knowing he thought faster than humans, that he could focus on numerous tasks at once, how he could outsmart just about anyone -- yet just talking with Evelyn proved to him that it didn’t matter how smart and capable he was. He’d always benefit from someone else’s help.

Maybe he’d let the pride get to him already, then. Infiltrating CyberLife and adjusting his plan on the fly to account for surprises had become a very powerful moment in his life, and he was a little ashamed to admit he might’ve been letting it feed his arrogance. He’d just been so successful in all that he did -- was it any wonder he’d begun soaking up the recognition and fame that came with those victories?

Forbes was proving to be a point of clarity for him, now that he’d begun to plan large events with her. She kept bringing him back from the mindset of, “I can do this, I can do anything,” to a much more manageable, “I can probably do this, but just in case...”

Considering his goal was to free possibly hundreds of androids, he appreciated that. He couldn’t risk their lives thanks to his own pride clouding his judgement.

By the end of the night they came to a singular conclusion: patience. Those androids were unlikely to wake on their own nor be moved anytime soon. They had time to work out the logistics of this plot, time to investigate and consider all angles.

Plus they had an open murder case to solve, too. That was more time-sensitive, ultimately, so the plan became to work on that first and the androids second.

Then, as time ticked away and Evelyn steadily began nodding off, she retired to bed. A part of him was frustrated by that; humans having to stop and sleep every day was such a time-killer. And though he didn’t say so aloud, he got the impression she agreed with him on that.

She commented dryly, “Time for this human to get some maintenance in.”

As she strode around the sofa, heading for her room, he quipped, “Don’t end sentences with prepositions.”

She flicked his shoulder, drawing a chuckle out of him. “Get in some maintenance, then,” she retorted, and he couldn’t quite tell if she was annoyed or just amused and pretending.

And then...he was alone again with nothing to do. And it was strange, but whereas he’d once been fine with having to wait, now he found it grating. He was... _ bored. _

Sure, he could go into standby mode again. It was a great way to waste time. He just felt reluctant to do so, knowing that doing so will mean he’ll have spent  _ hours _ unmoving, unthinking...useless. He’ll have accomplished nothing, not even basic tasks or rudimentary actions.

At a loss, he decided he may as well at least consume -- namely the media. He synced with the television and began intercepting its signals, receiving the audio and video feeds. And now that he confirmed he could do this (he hadn’t been sure), he decided to see how far he could push it. Closing his eyes, he blocked out everything external and began to test himself.

One by one, he added active channels, until he had a total of sixteen. His processors strained under this much work, largely thanks to the power required to pick up on the video feeds, so he opted not to add any more. He just flipped between the channels until he found ones that were either interesting or useful and...watched.

Seven of the channels were news stations. He recognized a few of them as national stations he’d caught in Detroit, too, the humans involved familiar. Two were international, reporting on Europe and central Asia, respectively. This was helpful in keeping him abreast of what was happening in the world, and he was pleased to find it was so easy.

There was also another surge of pride, knowing he could do this and humans couldn’t, but he tried to keep a handle on that. The last thing he wanted was to lose himself to pride and end up getting himself -- or someone else -- hurt because of it.

This could be a handy nightly routine, he mused. While Evelyn slept, he could keep an eye on the world as a whole, while simultaneously taking part in what was one of humanity’s favorite pastimes: consuming media. Films and shows passed through his mind of several differing genres, which was intentional on his part. He wasn’t sure yet what kinds of subjects he’d find enjoyable, so it was worth testing out each of them in turn.

By the end of the night, he found horror boring and romance kind of repulsive.

He suspected he just wasn’t feeling much in the way of fear, so he was missing whatever humans enjoyed when it came to horror. It didn’t help that most everything was predictable, either; the few horror films he watched had jumpscares exactly where he expected them to be, thus nullifying the effect, and he was impassive towards the gore and disturbing imagery.

....No, ‘impassive’ was the wrong word. He actually found himself analyzing it, and judging the special effects teams as a result. When a human was gutted during one film, their innards falling outwards, he couldn’t help but measure everything he saw -- the lengths of the intestines, which organs tumbled out as opposed to which actually could, even how accurate the fake blood was to actual blood.

It was when he concluded that they’d done a good job making the gory scene realistic that it hit him: he really shouldn’t watch horror films. He was only approaching them from an analytical standpoint and thus ruining the experience. He moved on from them.

Next came romance.

Maybe it was just how the romances were being portrayed in the few films he consumed, but he wasn’t seeing why humans liked it so much. It was commonly known that humans would kill and die for the kinds of relationships he was seeing, yet to him it felt hardly different from any other relationship (which, he admitted, might not mean much, as he was an outsider on the subject). Reminded that Evelyn was married and currently separated, too, supported his forming theory that it just wasn’t that good.

Yet they were clearly addicted to romance -- and sex. The latter, especially, was confusing. People commonly cheated on one another for sex, and why? From what scenes he witnessed during the course of the night (all of it softcore at most), there just didn’t seem to be that much of a reward for it. The humans in question would enjoy themselves, then move on like it hadn’t even happened.

Maybe his viewpoint was skewed, but shouldn’t they at least show some measure of lingering satisfaction? Or, given these were mostly films he was watching, were they just trimmed down for the sake of storytelling?

He probably just couldn’t comprehend it, being an android. That made sense. Resolving to ask Evelyn about it at some point (she was proving exceptionally talented at explaining things in ways he understood, as well as understanding him when he was having trouble putting his thoughts into words) he put the subject to bed.

Unsurprisingly, he was finding action and intrigue films the most palatable. Even for his high-tech and powerful mind, some of the mystery-themed films proved interesting. He mostly found himself ahead of the on-screen characters in putting puzzle pieces together, but then, he expected that was intentional. The audience was supposed to know what was happening before the characters, so they would care what happened.

But sometimes they proved unpredictable, and Connor liked that. Better yet, he found it useful; these films might mostly be invented, stories from human minds rather than actual events, but it gave him more glimpses into how the human psyche functioned.

And it was through this that he got an idea. 


	2. Storytime

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

**Summary:** Connor is curious about Evelyn’s career. Surely she must have some interesting stories…? 

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Tell me a story,” Connor prompted. 

Evelyn looked surprised. “Uh...once upon a time,” she started, humor to her tone. 

“Not like that,” he chuckled. “A story from your early cop days. An event that sticks out to you.” 

She gave him a measured look. “Why?” 

“Curiosity,” he answered easily. “I want to know more about you.” 

“Says the guy who doesn’t talk about himself,” she pointed out. 

“There’s little to tell,” he defended, “I’m not nearly as old as you.” 

“Ouch.” 

“You know what I mean,” he laughed. 

“Yeah, yeah…” She sighed, thinking, then smiled. “Okay, how’s about this one: the time I got a call from a little boy, calling the police on his schoolyard bullies.” 

That...would certainly fit his parameters, he admitted. Gesturing her, he said, “Proceed.” 

“Well, now that I have your permission,” she teased. 

He chuckled. 

She was quiet for a moment then, gathering her thoughts, before beginning, “So, the call came in and got directed to me. I was out on patrol at the time. This little boy is on the line and he says that three boys are outside his house, he’s alone, and he’s afraid they’re going to break in and hurt him. I ask if he knows the boys, he says yes and gives me their names. Then I get his address and decide I’m going to play a little prank on them -- scare them straight.” 

Connor already liked where this was going. 

“So I tell the boy -- his name was Theodore, I believe -- that I’m about two minutes away. I’ll come down his street slow. I want him to watch and when he sees my squad car, I want him to open the front door, then run into another room and lock it. Just pop the front open a crack, so the bullies think they can come in -- but _not_ to invite them.” 

“Trespassing,” he concluded. 

“Exactly. I arrive there and I can see these three boys in the front yard. They’re yelling and taunting, they’re throwing rocks at the windows, I hear one of them say he’s going to piss on Theodore’s _dog_.” 

Somewhere inside him Connor felt a _very_ strong desire to give each of those boys a firm slap. 

“Then, sure enough, the front door cracks open and the boys all go rushing inside. I pull up right outside the house and hit my sirens.” 

That must’ve been hilarious, he thought. 

“They about jumped out of their skin,” Evelyn was saying, grinning. “I just meant it to spook them, though, so I turn it off again and get out. At this time I had a partner, her name was Nancy Frey,” she told him (according to his records, that was her first partner, when Evelyn was 18-20). “She was fully in on this, so we go get the boys and ask them what they’re doing. They say they live there; we tell them no they don’t, that we just got off the phone with Theodore. And then we arrest them.” 

Startled, Connor checked, “You arrested three little boys?” 

“Damn straight, we did. We’d been talking about it on the way over and agreed to give them the full treatment -- cuffed, put in back, taken to the station, finger-printed, the works. They couldn’t have been more than ten years old, and at this point our goal was to impress on them the reality of the path they were walking. So we get all three cuffed,” she told him, “and we make it real. They’re tight, they’re uncomfortable, the boys are crying, we read them their rights and what we’re charging them with…” 

“Brutal,” he commented. 

“Sometimes you have to be,” she reasoned. “There was a crowd by the time we got the boys in the squad car. Recording everything, of course, plus -- y’know, this is modern times, Nancy and I both have our shoulder cams, too. So we get them in the back and these boys are _hysterical_. Sobbing, begging, one boy kept taking these really deep breaths and just shrieking from sheer terror.” 

And it was at that point he felt real worry. “That’s getting dangerously close to trauma,” he told her. 

“Yeah, we noticed,” she chuckled. “But we did still have to get them home and they absolutely needed to see the inside of the precinct, so we took them back. Once we got there we just marched the boys in -- still absolutely losing it, gasping, coughing, snot bubbles, the whole bit. We get them up to our desks, get the cuffs off, get them chairs, then get their info.” 

She sighed. “At this point I’m thinking they’ve had enough. I’m trying to get them calmed down. They’re making a scene, everyone’s staring, and I legitimately feel bad about this. Then Guerrero is drawn by the noise and asks what we’re doing. Nancy explains, and Guerrero says, ‘Okay, book ‘em.’” 

Brows high, Connor asked, “Guerrero told you to indict them?” 

“Yep. And I’m thinking, I wasn’t going to go that far, but the captain okay’d it, so…” She shrugged. “We got them finger-printed, we took their pictures with the little plaques -- nothing on them, of course, we just wanted the boys to know what it felt like from that side,” she explained. “Then we put them in a cell together.” 

“Bet they loved that,” he commented. 

“Oh, a hundred percent,” she agreed dryly. “Nancy was calling their parents while I did this, and once I got them in the cell I told them to stop crying, everything is fine, they’re not being arrested. They’re asking me why I’m doing this, so I tell them that what they’re doing is serious. If they were ten years older this would be for real. They would really be arrested. They ask why,” she hinted. 

That was easy to figure. “Harassment, assault, trespassing, damage of private property, threatening, potential animal abuse,” Connor offered. 

“Basically what I told them,” Evelyn concurred. “They say it’s not that bad, I told them it absolutely was. Theodore called the _police_ on them, he was so scared. He thought they were going to hurt him, maybe kill him. And I asked them to just imagine how that felt -- imagine if three boys bigger than them kept hurting and scaring them, how would they feel?” 

“Terrified, I assume,” he offered. 

“They started crying again,” she told him. “Figuring they got the point by now, I let them out and had them take seats in the waiting room for their parents. Nancy was already filing an incident report, so I helped her finish it. Then,” she added with strain, “their parents arrived.” 

“Bet that went over well,” he observed. 

“They were _livid_ ,” she said. “Absolutely just laid into me and Nancy for what we did. And parents like that, you can see why their kids act the way they do: their parents let them just get away with anything. So of course they won’t listen to officers of the law, no matter what we say. We terrified their poor, precious little angels,” she added with a mocking tone, “so it didn’t matter that they’d been the aggressors. _We_ were the bad guys for protecting the other boy, Theodore.” 

Now Connor felt concern for the officers at the precinct. People like that tended to get violent easily, and very often tried to force job loss by contacting the managers or commanding officers of the perceived guilty parties. And all-too-commonly, they were successful. Evelyn clearly still had her job, which was a relief, but the repercussions couldn’t have been nothing. 

“Did they try anything in retaliation?” he asked. 

“Multiple times,” Evelyn answered. “They left with their boys swearing up and down that they’ll have our jobs, they’ll ruin our lives, better sleep with one eye open, the whole bit.” 

“Threatening police officers in their precinct?” he checked, dumbfounded. 

“No one said they were smart,” she offered. 

Clearly not, he agreed. 

“Guerrero had to deal with the fallout. He was on our side, though,” she informed him. “The parents of two of the boys tried to sue us personally, for emotional and mental damage. Then Theodore’s father got involved,” she added, smirking. “He counter-sued. It became this really big mass of claims, including Nancy and I arresting all six of the parents for threatening the lives of two police officers. That was satisfying.” 

“And was all this brought up to a judge in a single hearing?” he asked. 

“Yep. He dismissed all claims outright when he started to realize how complicated it was, which was largely Guerrero’s idea,” she explained. “The plan was to make the case such a massive clusterfuck that no one wanted to deal with it, so we made all kinds of claims, including stuff like the parents littering by leaving tissues on the floor. Everything we could possibly bring into it, we did.” 

That had Connor laughing, just imagining the case file for this. Probably hundreds of pages of people pointing the finger at others and naming costs for damages and fines… It would’ve overwhelmed any human judge, bar none. 

“Afterwards,” she went on, “I got to see the ‘victims’ again. I had a moment with them apart from their parents, so I asked them how they’d been. They all said the same thing: they were sorry that Nancy and I got brought into this, that they didn’t want any of this, that they understood their lesson and weren’t going to be bullies anymore. It was heartening,” she added with a smile. “They were good boys -- it was their parents who were the assholes.” 

Well, that was good, at least. He concluded, “Then you and Nancy actually helped stop three boys from becoming criminals.” 

“Yeah,” she agreed, her tone suggesting she hadn’t thought of it that way before. “And that’s better, you know? Stopping a crime before it can begin is better than punishing the criminal.” 

That was a very enlightened point of view, he noted. “It is,” he confirmed, smiling. 

She smiled back. “They ended up making friends with Theodore,” she told him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better turnout.” 

“It’s been about a decade since then, correct?” he checked. She nodded; he asked, “Where do you think they are now?” 

“Optimistically? In college,” she answered. “Hopefully still friends, too. Thing is, though...I’m kind of scared to check. I don’t want to end up disappointed.” 

He could see her concern. “I’m sure they didn’t forget the lessons you gave them.” 

“No, but teenagers are the dumbest creatures on the planet,” she pointed out. “One mistake, one stupid decision, and it won’t matter what lessons they received as kids. That’s their lives -- over.” 

He could understand that, too. The system, as it was, wasn’t very forgiving. He decided then to check in on those boys. The incident report and general date would be enough to find what he was looking for. And if it turned out the boys had gone backwards as they entered adulthood, he just wouldn’t tell Evelyn. 

But something told him the kids had stayed on a steady path. 


	3. Career Chats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn reveals why she became a police officer, talks about her other career options, and outlines a headcanon relevant to my world setting regarding private investigators.

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Evelyn?” 

“Hmm?”

“Why did you choose to be a police officer?” 

She smiled at the question, amused. Giving him a side-eye glance, she warned, “You might not like this story.” 

He found that doubtful; so far he’d liked all of her stories. 

Gesturing her, he invited, “Proceed, if you please.” 

“Alrighty. It’s a short one, at least,” she mused. “Year was 2028, graduation was a month away, and I was very strongly considering my options. I never liked the concept of college, so I was resistant to the idea of joining one,” she was saying, “but there’s not a lot of options short of getting an advanced education degree. So my plan was to join the armed forces.” 

“The Army?” he checked, surprised. 

“The Air Force,” she corrected. “Because...if I’m gonna be honest...I _really_ wanted to fly. I wanted to be a pilot. I still do,” she admitted. “But I didn’t want to fly commercial jets -- I wanted to fly the fastest planes there are. Stealth and combat jets, the kind of vehicles that go faster than all the others, can spin and pivot and flip, if the pilot is good enough.” 

He gave a soft laugh. “Speed demon,” he concluded, thinking of the few times he’d picked up her on her adrenaline spiking in response to driving over eighty. 

“Speed junkie,” she countered dryly. “It’s a serious addiction for me. Sometimes it’s hard to just...not push my car as far as it can go, just for the rush. Discipline is hard.” 

He reasoned, “Everyone has their weakness.” 

“Speed is mine,” she agreed. “For almost my whole senior year, I was pinpoint driven to become a pilot. It was all I wanted.” 

“What made you change your mind?” he wondered. 

Thoughtful, she offered, “I had this...epiphany, less than a month from graduation. My parents were supportive of me wanting to join the Air Force, though they pointed out that just because I wanted to be a pilot didn’t mean I would be. But that wasn’t what deterred me. 

“It occurred to me that...if I did this, if I became a pilot,” she went on, “I’d be doing it for entirely selfish reasons. I wouldn’t be joining the armed forces to protect my country -- I just wanted to go fast. I wanted to fly.” 

“And,” he concluded, “that was seductive for you.” 

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” she agreed easily. “It’s what I wanted more than anything. I used to attend air shows whenever possible and imagined being in the cockpit. I still do, sometimes.” 

He took that in, wondering what it would feel like to actually fly a plane. For humans, adrenaline was a major component of flying; for androids, he suspected it would be merely a series of actions. Nothing would be inherently thrilling. 

Well, he amended, it might be, now -- the fear of death was generally a part of adrenaline rushes and androids definitely had a fear of death after everything that’d happened. Even he felt it, and he had the ability to back up his memory and take a new body if necessary. 

“So,” he worked out, “you chose to become a police officer to be selfless.” 

She aimed a finger at him, agreeing, “Exactly. Didn’t take me long to decide, ultimately. I considered what it’d be like, spending my life as an officer or a pilot -- or an astronaut,” she added. “That was on my mind, too. And becoming an officer felt...better than the others. I’d be of greater service to society with, overall, significantly less danger. So that’s what I chose.” 

Tilting his head at her, he picked up on some regret in her voice and actions. He checked, “But you’re not entirely satisfied with your choice.” 

“Well, I don’t suppose anyone really is,” she returned. “That’s a critical factor of life for ya: everyone’s discontent with their own life in at least one way. We always want something else.” 

He nodded. “And you still want to be a pilot.” 

The sound she made, then, was one of pure longing. “Y’know, a part of me hoped that by now the police would have air vehicles, so I’d get both my wishes. Alas,” she sighed. 

Brows drawn, he pointed out, “They have helicopters.” 

“First -- that’s not the same,” she told him. “Second, I don’t mean a few air vehicles to be used only in emergencies. I meant all vehicles. Every beat cop gets a plane.” 

“That...would probably be highly problematic,” he noted. 

She shrugged. “Dreams aren’t always logical.” 

Thoughtful, he asked then, “What was so seductive about flying, for you? Why was it such a point of interest?” 

She tilted her head at that, thinking, and answered, “I guess it’s my grandfather’s fault. My Mustang Fastback was his,” she explained. “He wanted a Shelby GT 500, but the time when he tried to get one was...bad. This was shortly after the movie Gone in 60 Seconds came out,” she told Connor. “The ‘67 Shelby GT 500 just...blew up in response to that. Grandpa was one of those who wanted one, too, but his funds were limited and a lot of sellers were jacking up their prices thanks to the sudden popularity. 

“Ultimately he got what he considered a close second: a ‘67 Fastback,” she was saying. “And, boy, did he love that car. He used to drive it just to drive it, and when I was born and started showing an interest, he was all over that. I was the only of his eleven grandkids to show an interest,” she hinted. “He used to take me out to long, straight roads in the middle of nowhere and just...go. Got that car up to 130 multiple times. A few times I was actually _in_ the car with him,” she noted, amused. 

That was actually kind of heartwarming, Connor thought, though he was surprised to hear she had eight cousins -- on her father's side. She probably had more on her mother’s side, he admitted. “And thus your love of speed was born?” he prompted. 

She nodded. “That, it was. When Grandpa hurt his back and couldn’t really drive anymore, he gave the car to my dad with the express purpose of it going to me as soon as I was 18. And Dad delivered on that,” she said, smiling. “When I said I was going to join the police force, first thing Dad did was take it back -- so he could give it a few upgrades to better fit my career choice. It’s a little heavier than it was, but the engine was upgraded to account for that. Got a brand new V8 engine -- same model, better equipment. Most everything under the hood got replaced to match.” 

Surprised, he said, “You sound like you really know what you’re talking about.” 

She gave him a smirk. “It’s my car -- you’re damn right, I know what I’m talking about. Absolutely everything in that car has been upgraded to keep up with the times cause I am damn well never getting rid of it or driving anything else, if I can help it. I can outline how the carburetor got replaced with a fuel injector, how the dash was remodeled to make room for the computer, even how the starter was replaced to allow for a keyless startup.” 

He tilted his head, curious. “Your car has a keyless starter?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You always use the key, though,” he noted. 

“And I probably always will,” she confirmed. “I like the-the feel of it. Turning the key, how the engine purrs, the little vibrations that go up my fingers...I don’t know. I honestly might be in love with that car.” 

Shock descended. Evelyn, a human -- a _married_ human -- admitting to being in love with a vehicle? He couldn’t help staring. 

She chuckled at his look. “Did I finally pose an impossible question?” she teased. Waving a hand in front of his face, she joked, “Are -- you -- shutting -- down?” 

Laughing, he smacked her hand away. “No, I’m fine,” he told her. “But I believe we were talking about your speed addiction.” 

Her brows quirked. “Grandpa’s fault,” she reiterated. “He used to take me on drives. It was always such a thrill. Nowadays I do it sometimes. Got it to one-fifty once -- that was an incredible day.” 

Surprised, he checked, “Then why didn’t you become a Nascar driver?” 

She gave a flippant wave. “Nascar’s been going down for years, now. There’s no future there. The idea of going over two hundred, though... _very_ seductive. But my goal is a lot higher than that.” 

Contemplating how fast jets could go these days, he checked, “Three thousand?” 

The look on her face was pure rapture, he noted with a measure of surprise. He’d apparently underestimated her “speed junkie” comment. 

“I’d kill just for the _chance_ to get that experience, even if I’m not the pilot,” she confessed. Then, tilting her head, she hedged, “Okay, no -- I wouldn’t _kill_ for that. But I’ve honestly never wanted anything more.” 

He was starting to see that. “And yet,” he noted, “you gave that up -- to serve the public.” He was impressed. 

She gave a smile. Then, looking his way, she said, “I almost chose a different path, you know. A parallel one: private investigator. But those require some level of experience to really get going, and I was fresh out of school.” 

“A P.I.?” he checked, amused. Evelyn Forbes, he mused, private investigator. The idea was humorous, somehow. 

She shoved him. “Don’t laugh at me. It’s a respectable profession.” 

Hands lifted in surrender, he replied, “Sure, whatever you say.” 

“I’m serious,” she pressed. “Were you not programmed with history or something?” 

That caught his attention. “History of androids and CyberLife, to an extent,” he answered. “And I have current laws. Why? What’s so interesting about private investigators?” 

Brows lifted, she blurted, “You really don’t know! Okay, then, a history lesson. Private investigators. P.I.s. Back in 2020, there was a _ton_ of civil unrest regarding the police,” she explained. “One of the things that came to light was the fact that the police, by law, weren’t required to actually protect anyone except those currently in police custody. This allowed them to get away with ignoring crimes in progress -- allowing crimes they didn’t want to impede,” she hinted sharply. 

He tilted his head, confused and alarmed. The laws, today, said the opposite: police officers were required to halt any crime in progress they were aware was happening. But digging a little deeper had an answer coming to the fore: this law was added to the Constitution in 2024. 

It was new. 

“That got changed in 2024,” she went on, confirming his independent search, “after years of court battles and protests and riots. The entire police force, nationwide, was almost totally dismantled in the interim. And, ultimately, at the end of the 2020 presidency, new laws were implemented -- namely giving police more accountability. 

“But those four years in between were scary, for everyone,” she continued. “A lot of neighborhood-watch-type organizations popped up. And we had to come up with some new way to get evidence presented in court for crimes that happened in that dead zone. That’s where a new, and lasting, change was given to private investigators. 

“Prior to 2020, they were extremely limited in what they could do and how they could present evidence in court,” she was saying. “I think it was something like they had to copyright their own audio and video evidence in order to make it acceptable in court cases. And even then they couldn’t provide any evidence taken from outside a private residence, so if they were investigating an alleged cheater and the cheating was happening in a home and they had recordings of it...inadmissible.” 

“So,” Connor worked out, “they basically couldn’t provide evidence in court in general.” 

“It was hard,” she corrected. “There were hoops everywhere. P.I.s had to be really good at jumping. But,” she added, “that changed in ‘21. They were given enhanced powers and rights by the courts. Their rights now included being able to enter a private residence or place of business to find evidence of crimes. They couldn’t take anything or alter what was already there, though, so they could only take films or pictures of the evidence. But that led to a lot of defendants claiming P.I.s had planted evidence, so now _that_ had to be addressed. 

“It became law that evidence gathered from unlawful entries into private places were _not_ admissible without an accompanying video from start to finish proving the P.I. did not plant anything,” she told him. “What’s more, it was determined that if a P.I. did an unlawful entry and was unable to locate evidence of the specific crime they were there to investigate, the defendant could sue. 

“The results of which were twofold,” she continued. “First, to prove without doubt that evidence gathered was legitimate, P.I.s started using a minimum of two active cameras: one head-height, one shoulder-height. But most decided to use a third as indisputable proof, generally hand-held but sometimes belt-high. And second: P.I.s are _extremely_ careful about unlawful entry. They avoid going anywhere unless they’re certain that evidence of a crime -- the specific crime they’re investigating -- is within the building in question.” 

Connor absorbed all that, his internal compendium building up further. And now he understood the anti-P.I. paraphernalia he'd seen at the precinct: the two professions clashed. A search revealed disdain on both sides for the other. They hated each other almost as much as humans hated androids, he noted with surprise. 

“And,” he noted, “anyone present while a P.I. is in an active investigation is required by law to stand still and do nothing. They can’t take, place, or change any objects or the P.I. can charge them with obstructing an investigation. This applies even to the police,” he noted with a measure of surprise. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “You also can’t so much as touch a P.I. while they’re working. If you do, they can take you to court. Only the FBI has the authority to remove them from a crime scene -- even the police can’t do that. It’s weird, isn’t it? Even if we know a P.I. is breaking the law somehow, we can’t arrest them as long as they’re doing their own investigation.” 

“And these laws persist to today,” he concluded. 

She nodded. “Yeah. In 2024 the police were reinstated with new restrictions and stricter laws, but now we’re kind of at odds with P.I.s. Granted, we can also hire P.I.s and the state will pay them for their time, but there’s a whole new level of police pride nowadays that doesn’t really allow for collaboration.” 

Noting that, he commented, “And yet you almost became a P.I.” 

Chuckling, she agreed, “And I would’ve been on the other side of the divide. Yeah.” 

“What made private investigations such an appealing concept for you?” he wondered. 

“The ability to pick your client and case, for one thing,” she answered. “I liked the idea of that freedom. But it is a commission-based profession, and I wasn’t confident enough in my ability to risk it. Hell, at the time I never envisioned myself as a detective. I was more focused on being an active duty officer.” 

Tilting his head, he asked, “What gave you your promotion?” 

With a nervous laugh, she replied, “A lot of little cases. One in particular, but...basically, I just kind of fell into it. Over time I proved myself a capable enough officer, even though I never really tried for it. But I do good work, so...I’m happy here. I think it worked out well.” 

He smiled. “I’m happy you’re here, too. I have no idea where I’d be now, if I hadn’t received your request -- or where the androids you saved would be.” 

She glanced away, her good humor draining. “They’d be dead,” she replied quietly, morose. 

“In which case,” he said more firmly, “I’m extra glad you’re here. Thank you -- for your service.” 

She gave him a smile, though it was strained. Though she answered, “You’re welcome,” he picked up on a note of melancholy. 

She wasn’t happy, he realized. Not anymore. Something was on her mind, something damaging. He was tempted to ask if she was alright, but she replied before he could decide on a question. 

“Protect and serve -- the slogan is law, now,” she said. 

And it was earned, he knew. It was harder than ever to become an officer of the law, requiring two years of training and a psychiatric evaluation for any cadet to be accepted. Evelyn had sidestepped that requirement thanks to her attending a military school, given she’d graduated with the physical and combat training demanded of officers. He suspected she’d only had to undergo the psychiatric evaluation before being allowed to join her precinct. 

Comparing the police before 2020 and after showed a massive change, he found. They’d truly turned around by ‘26, dividing excess responsibilities among more focused organizations, forcing stricter training, creating a one-strike limitation on law-breaking by officers, and even implementing a law in which an individual officer is liable for any medical billing caused by discharging their weapons, even in the case of lawful self-defense. Covering funeral costs, however, was different and determined on a case-by-case basis, but in 68% of reported cases over the last decade, it was ruled for the officer to pay those costs for whomever they killed and any next of kin. 

The accountability in the police force had gone from very little to an almost debilitating degree of it, he realized with a sense of awe. Considering he’d been programmed with the current laws and not the former ones, he hadn’t known about that sharp incline. It was impressive how well the U.S. had turned its civil protectors around, forcing out the corrupt by forcing whole new degrees of responsibility. 

And now he was curious about Evelyn’s own history with these laws. A quick check revealed that although she had only killed two people, she’d caused gunshot wounds on seventeen others -- and did her due diligence in covering the medical and funeral costs as required. She hadn’t even filed for release of the costs even once -- proving that she was willingly serving the law. More than this, he found that her history included using primarily hand-to-hand disabling tactics rather than her firearm. 

He could only conclude that she was actively choosing not to cause undue harm. And since Connor had quite easily harmed and killed more people in his six months than she had in a decade...it had shame descending. 

She had more empathy and discipline than he did, he realized then. And he couldn’t help feeling like he should rise to her level, like he should display the restraint she so clearly lived her life by. 

“Protect and serve,” he echoed on a murmur. “You really do that, don’t you?” 

Evelyn looked surprised. “Well, I try,” she hedged, curious. “What are you thinking right now?” 

He lifted his gaze to hers. “That you’re an example -- a figure everyone should live up to. Myself, included.” After all, they’d just been through a civil war of sorts and the last thing either side needed was more death. As an officer, it was now his honor-bound duty to lead by example. 

If there was to be no more in-fighting and blood spilled on either side, he needed to avoid spilling any, himself. 

She gave a little smile, touched yet hesitant. “Don’t put me on too high a pedestal, Connor,” she warned. “It’s a heck of a fall if I slip.” 

“I’ll catch you,” he assured her, following the metaphor. 

Her smile softened, warming. “You’re sweet. Thanks -- but keep in mind that if I fall...it’d be my own doing.” 

“I find that hard to believe,” he told her. 

“What you believe is irrelevant. Facts don’t care,” she hinted. 

A fair point. “Well,” he allowed, “I’ve yet to see any _facts_ that suggest you even could fall.” 

Her smile faded. “You will, sooner or later,” she murmured. 

Concerned, he asked, “What do you mean by that?” 

“Just that there’s always something new to learn, even about people you think you know inside and out. But don’t worry about that,” she advised. “Everyone will let you down at least once. It’s more productive to appreciate the times they don’t than try to prepare for the times they inevitably will.” 

He processed that, then commented, “You’re the oddest mix of pessimism and optimism I’ve ever encountered.” 

At that, she smirked. “And how many people have you met, Connor?” 

Doing a quick count, he answered, “4,203 humans and 12,957 androids. 17,160 altogether. But in this case I’m counting ‘met’ to mean ‘recognized and/or spoke with in person’. I’m not counting those I’ve only glimpsed.” 

She bit her lips, caught between amusement and befuddlement. “I suppose I should’ve expected you to be able to count them all,” she said, dumbfounded. 

He smiled. “Well, we both enjoy boasting, am I right? I find it kind of fun to show off.” 

“Got it: Connor From Detroit is a praise whore,” she commented dryly. 

He laughed. 


End file.
